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ryn Nov 2014
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         /        V       \         
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sparking at the end
•eating away at my wick•
forcing me into a backward bend•
now by the second I tick...•I am truly
seething•I am... TNT•I am so close to
exploding...•I am...incendiary•it feels
like a crime•but..............there isn't left
much room•it's just a matter of time•
before I finally decide to go...fizz...
f Aug 2018
my volatile cells
will quicken and slow my heartbeat
and there's rhyme or rhythm
no real reason except that i'm an easy target

i feel dizzy
and hyper aware of my skin at the same time
of how close it is to my body
of how much it isn't mine
i would love to escape me,
whatever that is
and stop seeing double for a second

i want to hurt myself
and let any part of me leave this prison cell of a body
because my blood rushing must mean
it wants to get out
i want to get out

i want to hurt myself
and feel something sharp enough that it grounds me
because that is a pain i can explain
rather than one that pulls me into the dark with no warning sign

i want to hurt myself
because i'm angry at my body
and every inch feels completely disgusting
lived in and useless
i feel used

and this body
it's a couple sizes too small to contain anything
and yet it has to;
there are years worth of ugliness and unwanted touches forced into it
and it all keeps trying to come back up

i could cry
or i could *****, i feel like i need to *****

or i could hurt myself
because i need my body to know how much
i hate it
and words of hatred etched into my skin,
hidden away,
feel personal enough that this family feud is contained
so i don't have to spill my blood on anyone else

i know i am stuck in a vicious cycle
and that a lot of times i hate my body
because of the very scars i've put there
but sometimes my cells really are volatile
and there's no rhyme or rhythm to anything i do;
all i can think about is getting out
ryn Mar 2015
Wonder if when constellations do align
And universe would finally see.
Would it be presumptious of me
To claim that then, finally you'd be mine.

Wonder if my sense would triumph over
So that my heart would be muted.
With all its contents looted...
Would I only seem sillier?

Wonder if I walked away
In due course.
You'd then take my hand in yours
So that a minute longer I'd stay...

Wonder if you'd understand
When if these feet
Should choose to retreat...
That they had to... It wasn't planned.

Wonder if it'd make a difference
If I said that I had to...
Not for me but more for you.
Would we still be able to love in silence?

Wonder if you'd wish that you made it all clear.
Before the gravity of reality would crush us,
Before the vastness of uncertainty swallows us,
Before my presence would diminish and inevitably disappear.

Wonder if you find my pessimism exhausting.
The volatile nature of my moods...
Especially when I dive deep in solitude
And resurface with a trove of words that are no less than exasperating.

Wonder if you loved me enough
In a day...
To stop me from walking away...
Or loved me too much to plainly say


Future's days would see us apart...
Future's moon would glow but not for us...
Future's stars would sing but not of us...
Future's sun would dry out the passion in our hearts.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge

A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace

Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed

The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind

An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless

Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake

It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree

  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp

A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil

Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas

Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Gazing into the vast abyss
Said the familiar voice
[You deserve all]
[All the happiness]

Stay blessed
Now it's the time
To pray
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Chronicle
Rama Krsna Apr 28
exacting in love
possessive by nature
volatile in temperament
and raging like flames
you are wild and untamed

nothing like docile padma!

the strategic placement
of each kiss on
your voluptuous body
you so unashamedly demand
is provocatively seductive

drawing out
from deep within the soul
of this simple flute-playing cowherd
a brazen but besotted lover

© 2019
padma: see my poem padma
M Solav Jul 14
There is form. And there is force.
Lightning blazes the sky with frightening might
Which bursts and dissipates in arteries of light
How it animates the living,
With its thundering displays!
How it penetrates us with awe,
And fills darkness with stories
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Gushes of wind brush the once austere surface
Which rises and resonates in hills that interlace
How it fuels our imagination
With its frenetic waltz!
How hypnotic its furious motion
And the flow of its assaults
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Mountains spring from seas and glide down the coast
Which is where we have crawled and now thrive the most
How it shapes the current world
With us barely noticing!
How volatile all our endeavors
And at the mercy of its whim.
And that is what we call the Force.
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.
jack Jan 2014
I can not touch you.
You grip my arm, my hand
Lies dormant across your bruised thighs
aware of the heat that threatens to engulf
all words with its existential

I can not see you, my fingers
Trace the curves of your face and neck,
Eyes like chemicals, volatile as they meet,?
Lips chapped and retreating.

I can not feel you, as the tears
Flood onto my fingertips.
multi sumus Apr 29
Harboured dire requirement of esculent succulence
-(analogous sustenance)

Tenacious ruminations of volatile animality
eduction consumption-(thus)

Infesting festering the faculties
Sequestering yetactually vetting contractually

Provisory nectarous odalisque

A basilisk id est voluptuous
mc ish Dec 2018
i will not shrink myself down
i do not come in pocket sized
i am more than your heart desires
yet a  glass has never complained to overflow
i am everything or nothing
and to you
something in between
i am loud and i am violent and i am volatile
reaching for the stars that dissolve in my fingers
heaven has never felt so far
slim down diets are so in
reach your love to fit like chickpeas in your heartless ides
a growling stomach makes a pretty lady
i am pretty much a lady?
P E Kaplan Apr 2014
At the age of nine, my brother Denny whispered to me ,
“Ya know, Frankenstein lives in the attic.”
“He’s right behind the small door in your bedroom closet.”
"Nah-ah," I told him and besides, "The door is locked."
“Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?" he smirked.

Throughout our childhood, my brother leaped out from
behind doors and around corners,
and somehow in scaring me, his fear diminished.  
I wondered at times if he loved me, then I thought,
'If he didn't loved me, he wouldn't try to scare me to death.'

On it went, until, without warning, our beloved mother was dead.
Tightened into ourselves, alcohol soothed our grief.
With our mother's life over, our anger for our father grew, a deeply troubled and volatile war veteran, violently abusive of us all,
my brother and I knew our lives were over in some unspoken way.

Over the years, we developed an awkward, surface connection,
with less contact, it was just easier.  Many years later, when our father died, we buried him.  Still the distance between us grew, so many things left unsaid. Forty years of separate lives, both of us alcoholic, we learned to hide resentment and grief deep inside.

On an August day, ten years after our father's death, my brother surrendered his last breath.  His liver worn out, unable to cleanse his blood. His suffering  and his anger ended.  With my brother gone, alone, I finally understood the meaning of family, and the absolute knowing we all did the best we could

From a Circle of One, I loved them with all my heart.
Logan Aug 25
I understand the fragility of relationships.
Far more volatile than supernovas:
At the very least stars mature before their final flicker.
Relationships on the other hand can fade, or collapse at any moment.
For this reason alone I hold you like it’s the last time.
In truth, it might be.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.

Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Fried, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
Quite similar to the Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck, light m'fire witcha spark and see a light in the night when the noised of terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong and a sleeping giant in a child may dream of other ways to see. New windows on new word worlds expressed in HD Quad-processed realities, child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe you are expert enough to try doing than is evil. Read it again. This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns, stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil. Be good.

We know from conception, we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world, provided for me, the kid.
The son, a first-man son, some several thousand generations removed. Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true, as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free! See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong, long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace? Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied. Their lies remain lies, evil knowns
are good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle oaths of loyalty to memes mad from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.
Fun, for fun. Bees in bonnets and such archaic antics, no pun un intended.
The N word test. I chickened out, but under protest. If I say/said a word to hurt a childlike mind, or an innocent ear, I am not being kind. And the black magi said He could care less, he's moving back to Kingston.
@April Prayer Day
Sing, sing,
Sing ditto to my heart
In tune, tune.
Are you losing your voice?
Voice, voice
It’s all repeated
This way, way.
Rolling in the forrest—
The world’s opening
A bit, a bit
When rounding up
Cheek, cheek
Where becoming pointed
Your fingers,fingers.
@ April Prayer Day
Struggle, struggle
Volatile the heart’s
waves, waves
Volatility struggle
Wings, wings,
Smash the star
lost, lost
I’d pray you in my
Heart, heart.  
I’d sing you in my
Soul, soul.
I’d put my chest
Put, put
On the lightened

@April Prayer Day
Shed tears from my eyes _
The life peace
In high, high
And hero in the beauty of
It, it,
heavenly,peace, peace
By Angel. XJ/04/04/2019 Our deepest condolences to the 30 Firefighters who Killed in Huge Sichuan Forest Fire
Xallan Jul 22
We like to credit the mothers and fathers
For a world full of broken children.

Volatile individuals who disappeared, vanished
Leaving more broken people behind to fill their holes
Leaving nonexistence.

They gave the world to their children
Like they gave the future of all the children into his palms
His palms are soft, defined by lack of wear, by absence of fear.

Palms that carry a psychological burden.
Defined by folds and wrinkles and lines which twist and deviate like choices he will make
Family heirlooms that have crashed to the floor with the swipe of a careless hand

So when he held the vase he felt the weight of the missing ceramic shards and learned
You can't fill broken things with more emptiness
Or define integrity by cracks which twist and deviate like the choices he made.

He doesn't want to have the hands that press the red button
He's thinking about the children, he's thinking
About being a child.
Lisa May 2018
Plagued by a flagging heart at the very mention of Brazil,
and the poor habit of scrolling to Capricorn at any and all astrological babble.
Meaningless and heedless whether together or apart,
tyros or hedonists,
perhaps both.
A volatile amalgam any way you slice it.

My best poems are about you,
my worst thoughts too.
Heidi Franke Mar 2018
I thought
my thoughts
were bigger than anyone's.
Maybe I was bigger than anyone.

This served to isolate me
from the fact that I am small, not bigger and I am okay
with that.

When did it begin? Why would I need this mechanism of living?
Did it start at birth? Or when my cat died in our house fire?
When I lost my father to his mental illness? When he was taken away?
Maybe the ****?
When the trauma set in?

If I am a mass of cells, a living organism,
vulnerable to this world of others.
I need protection. There was none when little. Children need protection.

I developed my bigger-self by watching others. I learned to protect.

I learned to heal. I learned to forgive, but always, my thoughts
were bigger than yours. You didn't recognize so I appeared
aloof, angry, bitter, warming, smarter, friendly, volatile, politically correct, patient, intense, stubborn, caring, wistful, shattered and put together again. I was all over the map. I couldn't find my waypoint, until now.

This is life's way. Our vehicle is our thoughts.

I am not bigger in thought, in action or in self. I am tired of running away, of blaming, of being ashamed.

I no longer need protection other than from myself.

I am now relaxing in the part I could not have been taught. The idea that even experiences, over and over and over again, would teach me my lesson. You ask why people keep repeating
mistakes. This is our allotment. The price each of us pays.

It is my thoughts that save me now, wondering about my son, his illness, about my predicament
after years of hard work, unabashedly independent, procuring mindfulness, deliberating the Buddhist way, meditating on thoughts,
through a maze of my twelve steps
that I now for this moment am alone in.  My thoughts deconstructed. More connected, but not bigger.

My shoulders drop, my face unfurrows, my heart slows, a tear begins if I let it. I am released. I will not suffer further.

How can I tell you, I am not bigger any longer and I am at peace.
Eva Aloezos Aug 2018
My brain was assaulted by the volatile senses

colors so vivid and twitching
songs zooming and playing ear through ear
toes drumming
bodies humming
pysche corrupting my dendrites, and playing them like a piano

it all came crashing down in pure brilliance when I revealed,

*The top half of me feels like it gave birth to a train wreck, beauty corrupted by mayhem
I'm too much
think too much
feel too much
seen too much

there's too much

encased, lowered
sealed, oxygen-devoid
decomposing underground
dunno if I'll ever be
my oddnormal alive

last night I didn't eat enough
drank too much, but still
not enough
to numb this chasm
climbing on feet cracked
trying to ascend
my insides

last night I cried
in my brother's arms
shaking infantile
held close - yet
lonely still

the kind of lonely
that only sets in
after you forget
what it's like
to feel

when the trauma unit
becomes your domicile
for years on years on years

you can't even know
how ****** up you are
all comparisons lost
perpetually swept under
survival mode rug

he told me
I'm not ready

for anyone

proceeded to confess he's
writing a letter to the girl he
fell in love with ten years ago

to unburden his chest
attempt a closure
or maybe crack
back open

they had a thing
it was too much


love discovered
then abandoned

the day after she left
he hooked up
with his son's mother
for the first time
to escape the pain

entangling himself
in surface motions
for the better part
of a decade

too much
is there still
the connection
never severed
red strings
still tied


I want friendship, but maybe
that's asking too much

after making love
breaking apart, gluing back
only to shatter again
without even so much
as one pillowtalktouch

yet that, says something
so strange and rare
unto itself


but when your mouth shuts
my brain snorts questions marking
volatile heartstops and starts

I don't wanna be
writing a letter in 10
(or would it be 8 now?)
to shut thresheld door
never walked through

I want to know real hello
if only to get


retire these lines
to open bare arms

fresh residue of you
emanating cold bone crush
searching for your diamond slivers
in another set of eyes

if I know one thing
for absolutelyfuckingsure it's:
these skeletons of truth
will keep on rattling
behind closed doors
even when we'd rather

our remains
be still
this was definitely too much...
zen Sep 2018
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,

Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ******,   in the shambles of the moon,  
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in  favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
    behaved haughty and in disdain,  
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
                 to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
   roving like noble patrolsmen.

Traveleres and trainees at sea
   humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
           volatile and toiling,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
     hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.

Hence the heroes heed
   to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
 seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
      in the murky shadows of doubt.
Just what does it feel like?
Is it all peachy moment after moment
Is it about muffins, rainbows and unicorns
Or a smile so constant that cheeks ache
Is it the buoyant presence of a presence
Of a lone sentinel to avert your fall
Is it the warmth of the arms
you surrender yourself to
Or a romantic ambience
Immeasurably delightful
Or is it the absolute vacancy
Of melancholy
Or maybe just the belief in yourself
Is it the period when you break free
from the heavy corroding chains that restrict

It is, in fact,
Something volatile
Something more tense than calming
Something more exasperating than pleasing
Menacingly merciless
Joltingly jeopardizing
*Execratingly endangering
To every person happiness has a different definition.
It is an emotion which justifies even the misdeeds. It is the bringer of sorrow.
Think about it, a thief will be 'happy' robbing your home successfully.
Onoma Jan 20
a volatile passion...

remote as caves

that've blown their

throats out.

to fully reverberate

depths that will never

be reached.
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